


Olives From Spain

by Kate_Marley



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Canon Related, Humor, M/M, historical allusions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 12:10:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7102795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kate_Marley/pseuds/Kate_Marley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spain and his love for olives—a never-ending story. Rated T for language … Austria’s language. Hints of (past) SpAus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Olives From Spain

**Author's Note:**

> During an EU meeting in Hetalia World☆Stars, chapter 167-170, Austria suggests the number of olive farms within the EU should be reduced because the production of olives exceeds the demand. Spain vehemently rejects the idea, so Austria suggests Spain should convince everyone of how important olive farms are for his economy. France tries to help him as well and suggests promoting the use of olive oil so that the demand rises. Spain, however, just talks about how much he loves olive trees since the time when he was a little child … and that everyone should just use more olive oil—eat olive oil with vegetables instead of vegetables with olive oil and the like. That way, it doesn’t come as a surprise that Spain isn’t able to convince anyone…

Austria sighed. The EU meeting he was attending dragged on for hours now and he was getting tired of listening to the same arguments for the umpteenth time. Unlike other conventions—such as meetings in the Commission for the International Protection of the Alps, CIPRA, for example—he didn’t even have his old friend and cousin Switzerland to bicker about the peculiarities of the other countries present.

At last, Germany complied with Austria’s secret wish for a break—or, rather, with little Italy sagging against his shoulder drowsily for the second time in thirty minutes—and suspended the meeting for a short coffee break—or tea time, in England’s case.

The first thing Austria did was get up and open a window to their conference room in order to let in fresh air—if anything similar to “fresh air” ever existed in the business area of Brussels. He leaned over the windowsill, stuck his nose up in the air quite literally and sniffed.

“Our argument didn’t bother you so much you now intend to jump out of the window, did it?” a mildly concerned—and very familiar—voice asked.

Austria leaned back into the room and turned to the person next to him with an expression that could only be described as something in between a frown and a smile. _Spain._

“Well, I’m not the one who had a problem with my proposal to reduce the number of olive farms in the EU”, Austria replied in a conciliatory tone. “Speaking of it, did you come up with a better reason for me to reconsider the matter—one that doesn’t simply consist of you telling me how much you love olive trees?”

“Well…” Spain leaned against the windowsill next to Austria and ran a hand through his shock of tousled hair. Austria tried to silence the traitorous voice in his head that whispered _just how beautiful_ Spain looked when sunrays fell through the window on his auburn hair and bronzed skin.

“Well?” Austria pressed on in an unnecessarily brusque tone, trying to distract from how his eyes softened whenever he had to look at Spain for too long from too close by.

Spain smiled at him like a scolded schoolboy, and Austria felt his fingertips tingle with the desire to brush them against his face and hair. Like most musicians, he was not only an auditory but also a tactile person.

“Well, France suggested I start an image campaign to tell everyone how wonderful olive oil is”, Spain said at last. “I asked him to advertise the one hundred per cent olive oil juice I made…”

_Your what?_ Austria blinked. He didn’t interrupt Spain, but for once, he wasn’t surprised at his sudden feelings of sympathy for France.

“…but he said he wouldn’t drink it.” Spain’s face fell, and Austria’s empathy shifted back to its original object.

“He said it was disgusting to drink pure olive juice”, Spain added sheepishly, eyeing his toecaps. “He said _I_ was disgusting because I drink it.”

Austria was surprised at the sudden flare of anger he felt rising in his chest. _How dare you say such a thing about your own cousin, France?_ he thought.

“Pure olive juice is certainly no beverage I would consume”, he replied with outward calmness, “but _you,_ Antonio, are disgusting _in no way.”_

“Thank you”, Spain said, blinking. “Anyway, I think France is right about this image campaign. I should just remind everyone of how healthy olives and olive oil are. There have always been olive groves at my place and they really mean a lot to me, so I should know all about them!”, he babbled. “Olives taste really good, and there are so many wonderful things you can use olive oil for… I mean, we were married for so long, you, of all people, should know…”

“Spain”, Austria interrupted him. _“Spain._ Do you realise what you are just talking about?”

Spain closed his mouth, blinked dazedly … and took on an interesting shade of tomato red in no time.

“God.” He clapped his hands on his heated cheeks and turned to stare out of the window. “Oh … God. I really didn’t want to … to allude to _that.”_

“That’s what you call a Freudian slip, I suppose”, Austria commented rather casually while, at the same time, trying to keep his own face from turning pink. He hid his shaking hands behind his back, grabbing the windowsill to steady them. _This is what you get for breaking your own rule of not talking about intercourse in public,_ he chided himself. Austria tried to silence an insolent voice in his head reminding him that Spain had meant no harm, that it had been _him_ who had interpreted Spain’s words in a suggestive way.

_It’s your fault you talked yourself into this situation,_ he thought, _so now you have to see to get out of it again._

“Well, I suppose you had no intention of asking me to come over to your house and see your olive groves”, he finally said. “I therefore suggest to extend to you the proverbial olive branch and ask you to stop talking about olives for the time being. Would you be content with this solution?”

Spain turned to him, blinking at Austria sheepishly behind hands he still pressed to his face.

“I—I think so”, he said hesitantly, lowering his hands. Then, a cheeky smile crept onto his face. “I’m not so sure about the olive groves, though.”

Austria stared at him, dumbfounded.

“Did you just … _flirt with me?”,_ he said at long last.

“Perhaps?” Spain’s smile widened to a grin. “And by using one of the worst pick-up lines in history, at that.”

Austria’s lips twitched.

“One should think two former imperial powers like us would know how to court someone in a more appropriate manner”, he commented wryly. “Apparently, that is not the case.”

Spain giggled. “No, apparently not.”

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my … what was I _thinking?_ Anyways, the story is complete now, so I might as well post it. Notes should be unnecessary; there’s only one thing left to explain: The CIPRA _(Commission Internationale pour la Protection des Alpes)_ includes Austria, France, Germany, Italy, Liechtenstein, Slovenia, Switzerland, and South Tyrol (South Tyrol is an autonomous province of Italy and has its own representatives there). I quite like those seven Alpine states (and province ;) ), so I mention CIPRA from time to time.
> 
> ~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~
> 
> German translation: <http://www.fanfiktion.de/s/5754a5c700042e27dad7761/1/Spanische-Oliven>


End file.
